


A Week with Paul

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 14:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10901547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The thing about retirement ceremonies was that they were usually better when the person in question showed up. In fact, such ceremonies were largely pointless without their presence. So naturally, when Teemu called Bob Murray, he was a little surprised to learn that Paul Kariya might not be in the Honda Center the night they raised his number to the rafters.Within fifteen minutes, he’d booked his seat on a plane which would take him across the Atlantic Ocean, across the continental U.S., all the way to a house in Orange County. One way.One never booked a return ticket with Paul Kariya.The (Mighty) Ducks have decided to retire Paul Kariya's number at last, and now it's Teemu Selanne's job to convince his friend to show up. Except, it turns out that retirement is the least of his worries, and the least of his desires as well.





	A Week with Paul

**Author's Note:**

> In light of Paul Kariya's recent video with the Ducks where he painted over the number nine, it seems more plausible that they might actually retire his number. Except, would he really even agree to show up? And who better to convince him than Teemu?

_Day One_

 

The thing about retirement ceremonies was that they were usually better when the person in question showed up. In fact, such ceremonies were largely pointless without their presence. So naturally, when Teemu called Bob Murray, he was a little surprised to learn that Paul Kariya might not be in the Honda Center the night they raised his number to the rafters.

 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Bob. “He’s been very secretive about his intentions.”

 

Teemu only called because Paul had refused to respond to any of his texts and voicemails over the past few days. Even though Paul had skipped Teemu’s ceremony, Teemu wanted to at least be present when the Ducks finally provided his friend with the respect he so richly deserved. As for Paul not reciprocating the favor three years ago, well, Teemu understood. He understood that the different circumstances of their respective retirements changed the nature of their relationship to hockey. Teemu skated until he chose not to; Paul skated until he physically, medically could not. Ceremonies and professional hockey only served as a reminder of what he had lost.

 

Not that Paul was ever one for pomp and circumstance in the first place.

 

Still, there had to be a way. “Did you ask talk to him before making the decision to retire his number?” he asked Bob. “He’s not on some ski trip this time around?”

 

Bob sighed heavily over the phone. “You and I both know that if he wants to be there he will, ski trips be damned. It’s not about that.”

 

“Of course,” he said. “Just thought that maybe Paul had decided to change things up for once in his life.” He considered for a moment. “I’m not actually sure that would constitute a change, come to think of it.”

 

“Look,” said Bob frankly, “we all wanted this ceremony to heal whatever grudge he might still be carrying towards the Ducks. It’s been, what, fifteen years since he last played for us, and almost everyone in the organization who knew him is gone. This was supposed to be our way of honoring him and letting everyone move on.”

 

“Honoring him seems like a good enough reason on its own,” said Teemu coolly.

 

“Of course, of course,” said Bob quickly. “But surely everyone’s happier if we can do both.”

 

Teemu remained silent. After a few seconds, Bob began talking again, this time with a hesitant lilt brushed across his voice. “Actually, it’s a little fortuitous that you called, I think. If Paul ever listened to anyone, he listened to you.”

 

“So you want me to do your dirty work?”

 

“I want you to bring your friend to a ceremony designed to honor him. If you want to call that dirty work, then sure.”

 

He fiddled absentmindedly with the hem of the tablecloth before him, working at one of the frayed edges. It was the sort of disorder which Paul always despised—irregular boundaries, things falling apart, the world refusing to comply with his standards of exactitude. If he were there, he would have cast him one of those stern, disapproving looks he so loved.

 

(He hadn’t talked to Paul in more than six months).

 

“He’s not replying to my texts,” he told Bob.

 

He practically heard the eye roll over the phone. “Well what did people do before cell phones, eh? Write him a goddamn letter if you have to! You know how to talk to the guy.”

 

He used to know, sure. But that was before the world had shit on Paul, and Paul had responded by retreating into his shell more than ever.

 

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “But no guarantees. And I’m not doing this for you.”

 

“We’re doing our part,” said Bob. “Try to make him understand that.” And with that final sentiment, he hung up.

 

Teemu looked out across the dining room where he sat, the broad expanse of empty space filled only sparsely with furniture. After retiring from the NHL himself and his falling out with Sirpa, he’d retreated to this house, the one in Finland where he was beloved among his country and his family. He loved the gentle summer light as it streamed through the wide, clear windows, and he loved the unblemished view of the trees behind his house, the tall oaks which stretched far into the sky, the evergreens, modest in summer but majestic in winter, the little birdfeeder he occasionally filled and the birds who flocked to him in droves.

 

“Goddamn it, Paulie,” he swore softly. “I was really looking forward to the summer here.”

 

Within fifteen minutes, he’d booked his seat on a plane which would take him across the Atlantic Ocean, across the continental U.S., all the way to a house in Orange County. One way.

 

One never booked a return ticket with Paul Kariya.

 

 

_Day Two_

 

Paul’s house was nearly entirely unchanged from the last time he’d visited. Several of the bushes which decorated the front walk bulged with untrimmed growth, and Teemu knew that Paul had probably forgotten to call a gardener or landscaper to take care of it. Normally Paul was fastidious about appearances, but perhaps he’d loosened up.

 

Probably not.

 

He knocked sharply on the door. After two minutes of waiting, he knocked insistently again. The car sitting in the driveway indicated that Paul was home (though perhaps he had walked to the beach to surf), so he kept knocking until at last he heard footsteps approach.

 

The door swung open at last, revealing Paul Kariya. A brief flicker of surprise flashed across his face before quickly disappearing behind the mask. “I should have known,” he said, and then slammed the door in Teemu’s face.

 

“Oh fuck you,” muttered Teemu and knocked again, hard, persistently. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me!” he yelled. “You can either talk to me or call the police, your choice!”

 

The door opened more slowly this time, and Paul regarded him with a blank expression, entirely unreadable even to Teemu. Paul just stood there, unmoving, neither moving to allow him in or block him entirely.

 

“Can I come in?” he said at last. “Or are you going to ignore me some more? That’s no way to treat your best friend.”

 

“Who says you’re my best friend?” said Paul evenly.

 

“Me,” he said. “And the fifteen times I’ve called you over the past few days.”

 

“Calling me doesn’t make you my best friend.”

 

“How about flying halfway across the world to come talk to you because you won’t respond a single one of my text messages?”

 

“Oh,” said Paul. Still, he remained motionless.

 

Teemu sighed. “Please, just let me come in and talk to you for ten minutes. I promise I’ll leave after that.”

 

At last, Paul stepped aside, allowing Teemu to cross the threshold. Much like the outside, the interior of Paul’s house remained largely unchanged: simple décor, scrupulously neat, and only a few small reminders of hockey scattered throughout. A large surfboard stood against the wall in the open living room right next to the large glass door that opened onto a spacious yard.

 

“You have ten minutes,” said Paul, his face pinched.

 

Teemu twisted around sharply and raised his eyebrows. “You counting?”

 

Paul’s eyes flickered to his silver wristwatch. “Yes.”

 

“And does that include a greeting? A, ‘Hello, Teemu, how lovely to see you. I apologize for falling off the face of the earth for six months, but I’m so grateful you’re here now.’ Or, ‘Hello, old friend. Can I offer you a drink? You must be tired after such a long trip.’”

 

“If you came here to chastise me, you’re wasting your time.”

 

“Chastise you? Never.” He strolled into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of water, chugging it down gratefully. Airplanes always left him so dehydrated. “I know that doesn’t work.”

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

He slid closer to Paul, who had ensconced himself in the corner of the kitchen and leaned back casually yet stiffly against the counter. Only centimeters separated them, but Paul did not react further beyond a small flinch.

 

“I’m here to say hello, like I said.” He paused. “I’m also here because your number is finally being retired, and rumor has it you won’t even be in attendance.”

 

Paul’s eyes darkened dangerously. “Bob Murray sent you, didn’t he?”

 

“No, Paul, he did not. He did tell me about your little plan and encourage me to come say hello, but the decision to fly here and see you in person was entirely mine.” He slid even closer, closing the physical gap between them entirely, and his hand brushed Paul’s arm. “I’m your friend, Paul, all joking aside.”

 

“If you’re my friend, then you’ll know why I’m not going,” said Paul shortly.

 

“I know why you don’t _want_ to,” he corrected. “But it’s always been my job to change your mind. From the very beginning.”

 

“What does it matter anyways? They decide to retire my number, fine. Good. They can do that with or without me. The Ducks don’t need me.”

 

“You’re absolutely right, they don’t,” said Teemu, and he observed how Paul flinched visibly at the remark. “They don’t, and yet they’re doing this anyways. Which means they appreciate the times when they did need you.”

 

Paul scoffed loudly. “I don’t know why they did it, but it sure wasn’t out of the goodness of their heart.”

 

“Maybe not,” admitted Teemu. “But does it matter either way? This is still your moment, everything you deserve.”

 

Paul was silent for a moment, for one shining, brief moment where Teemu allowed himself to imagine that he’d broken through, that he’d reached through to his friend and convinced him to take the honor he so richly deserved.

 

Then Paul spoke quietly. “If it’s my moment, then shouldn’t it be up to me to decide what I do?”

 

And just like that, they were back in 1997, with Paul staring stubbornly up at him, eyes both determined and scared as they awaited the hordes of reporters who clamored for their attention just outside the locker room. The smiled which he so loved, the one which emerged in practice or in quiet moments on the road, lay buried beneath three tons of reserve and disdain of the spotlight. Teemu had worked hard to chip away at the stone walls Paul so loved to construct, and he’d spent nearly twenty years dragging him into the world outside hockey.

 

He shouldn’t have assumed that just because Paul left a world with hockey that he’d embraced a world without it. If the bitterness lying dormant in his expression was any indication…

 

“You’re right,” said Teemu. “It is your choice, and it always has been.”

 

Paul’s eyes widened, as he’d clearly been expecting further pushback and argument. When Teemu played his last regular season game, he’d called Paul every day for a week and harangued him until he relented and agreed to attend. Now, he hadn’t even exhausted his allotted ten minutes.

 

“But,” he continued, “I did fly out all this way to see you, and it would be a shame to waste my time here, wouldn’t it?”

 

“How long are you here for?” asked Paul guardedly.

 

“A week,” he said, conjuring the return date from thin air. “Then back to Helsinki with me.”

 

Paul nodded, still revealing nothing with his expression.

 

“Just a week,” he said. “Can you stand me for just a week, Paulie?”

 

And at last, Paul’s expression soften as he released some of the tension knotted in his shoulders. Almost on instinct, Teemu reached his hand to the back of Paul’s neck and alighted there, fingers just pressing the nape of his neck.

 

“A week,” said Paul, swallowing hard. “I can stand a week.” He looked up with a wry, crooked smile. “I guess I owe you that much.”

 

 _You don’t owe me anything_ , thought Teemu. _If anything, it’s me who owes you_.

 

Instead, he just smiled and said, “Perfect. Lunch tomorrow?”

 

 

 

 

_Day Three_

 

They met at Teemu’s favorite restaurant, the one with the steak so tender and perfectly marinated that his mouth watered before they’d even been seated. Once at the table, Paul fiddled with his silverware while Teemu chugged his glass of ice water. Maintaining proper hydration was a habit still thoroughly ingrained into him.

 

“I’m sorry for yesterday,” said Paul suddenly. “For being rude to you.”

 

He eyed him over the water glass. “It’s fine, really.”

 

“No, it’s not. It’s just…yesterday was a bad day, and when you showed up, I just didn’t want to deal with anyone or anything.”

 

Teemu set down his glass. “When you say ‘bad day,’ what do you mean exactly?”

 

Paul shifted his gaze from side to side. “You know what I mean.”

 

He stared intently at Paul. “I thought you were doing well.”

 

“I am doing well. That doesn’t mean I don’t have bad days from time to time.”

 

“How bad?”

 

“Headache, mostly. If it’s particularly terrible, maybe some dizziness, light sensitivity. Mostly just the headaches.”

 

“And you had a headache the whole time you were talking with me yesterday?”

 

Paul ducked his head.

 

“You should have told me.”

 

“And you would have done what, left earlier? There’s nothing you can do. It’s part of life, my life at least.”

 

He passed his fingers over the menu gently, smoothing out a wrinkled corner. “But it is better, yes? Not as bad as it was before.”

 

“No, Teemu,” said Paul softly. “Not as bad as it was before.”

 

“And you are feeling better today?”

 

“Yes, I am.”

 

“Then that is the most we can hope for, I suppose.”

 

“For now,” said Paul.

 

Lunch, as expected, was delicious, and the steak’s seasoning lingered pleasantly across the surface of his tongue. Around them, a quiet murmur of other folks echoed gently around the room.

 

“How are you?” said Paul in between bites of his fish—the same meal he always ordered for every visit to this restaurant—with one of the first genuine smiles he’d seen all day. “I probably should have asked you that earlier, yesterday even, but, well, you surprised me and it slipped my mind.”

 

He paused mid-chew in order to consider. “I’m fine, I suppose,” he said finally. “Retirement is—

 

“Terrible?” suggested Paul.

 

“I was going to say different, but I try to be optimistic.”

 

“Some guys, you know, they look forward to retirement. They don’t like the constant travel, the schedule, the meal plan. I never minded. I don’t think you did either.”

 

“I know you loved it,” said Teemu gently. “And I know you didn’t retire by choice, not like me.”

 

“I thought you would never retire,” said Paul. “Not until you harassed me for a week about coming to your last game. I figured if you were that persistent, it might actually be true.”  


“Never let it be said that I let you off easily.”

 

“I don’t think anyone has ever said that.”

 

“Most guys, they don’t need encouragement to have fun.”

 

“I have fun,” said Paul. Teemu just raised an eyebrow. “I surf, I cook, I read from time to time.”

 

“Yeah? And what do you read?”

 

“Depends. Lately I’ve been looking into spy novels.”

 

Teemu snorted. “Right. Of course you have.”

 

“There was even this Finnish spy in the latest one I was reading. He reminded me of you.”

 

“Because he was Finnish?”

 

“Well, yes,” said Paul, then hesitated. “And because he was brash and loud and never knew when to give in. The Finnish part definitely helped.”

 

Teemu snorted. “I am a simple man, I suppose. Interchangeable with Finnish spies from your generic spy novels.”

 

Paul seemed oddly upset by that last statement, though Teemu couldn’t pin down the reason. He was joking of course. Surely Paul understood that? He reached across the table and covered Paul’s hand with his own, wrapping his fingers solidly around his first two knuckles. Paul’s eyes flickered towards him, but he did not withdraw from the contact.

 

“I would never confuse you for someone else,” said Paul quietly. “There’s never been anyone else like you.”

 

“Funny, I could say the same thing about you,” he replied. “It’s nice to know you appreciate me, though.”

 

“Who said I appreciated you?” said Paul, but he cracked a small smile whose warmth travelled straight into Teemu’s heart. “Maybe you’re just uniquely a pain in my ass.”

 

“Would you have it any other way?” he asked.

 

Paul covered Teemu’s hand with his other palm and squeezed. “No, I wouldn’t, I suppose,” he said, and a little thrill flew through Teemu’s chest.

 

Whoever said that chemistry faded had never met the two of them. Teemu beamed. “Then you won’t mind if I join you this week for some surfing? Get some more quality time with my friend?”

 

Paul hesitated once again. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s fine, but it’s a routine, you know? And messing with routines usually doesn’t bode well.”

 

“Just give me a shot, Paulie,” he said. “Just give me a shot, and let’s shake things up again. You and me.” He bored his gaze straight into Paul’s eyes. “A little change can be good, after all.”

 

 

 

_Day Four_

 

On the fourth day since Murray’s call, Teemu dragged Paul out to the golf course for a full eighteen holes. Though Paul professed a strong hatred of golf, his carefully honed swing belied his words. At the first hole, his swing carried the ball past the sand and the rough patches of the course until it was only perhaps two or three strokes from the hole.

 

“You said you don’t play,” Teemu complained.

 

Paul shrugged. “I don’t.”

 

“Something like that takes practice.”

 

“People make me play from time to time, so I practiced enough to be good. But I don’t play unless someone’s forcing me to.”

 

“Like now?”

 

“Like now,” Paul agreed. “But it’s fine. Just keeps me in shape for the next time Joe comes to town.”

 

They played through the next eleven holes without issue. He actually enjoyed golf, and Paul seemed content enough to follow along. They chatted casually; he spoke of his house in Finland, which Paul had visited once many years ago but had since undergone renovations; Paul mentioned his sister had visited for several weeks in February and stayed with him. Their parents were aging, and Paul’s father in particular was struggling with heart problems, so he and his siblings were attempting a closer relationship, or at least an active one.

 

“It would mean a lot for them to see your number retired,” said Teemu casually.

 

Paul whiffed on his put. “I thought we weren’t discussing this.”

 

“I never promised anything,” he said. “I’ve just kept quiet up until now.”

 

“Well, I already told you my decision, so I don’t see why we need to discuss it at all.”

 

“Because this is a big fucking deal!” Teemu stared at Paul, who just stood stonily in silence. “Because your number deserves to hang next to mine, and even though they should have been there together, this is the next best thing.”

 

“If you’re mad at me about not coming to your ceremony—“

 

“Okay, I was a little angry at the time, but I understood. I get it. You were there at my last game, so that made it acceptable. But this is you! This is the franchise you helped create wanting to honor you. I don’t see why that’s so hard to accept.”

 

“I think I should have some say in what happens to me.”

 

Teemu huffed in anger. “This isn’t just about you, though. I mean, it is, but it’s about everyone else. It’s about your family, you friends, everyone who ever supported you. Hockey is a team sport, on and off the ice.”

 

“You’re right,” said Paul icily. “It is about more than me. It’s about the people who will be hurt in the same way and who will see the people who hurt them get off scot free. If the Ducks and the NHL want me to acknowledge them, they need to fucking do something about their situation.”

 

The California summer air had turned cool.

 

“There have been changes,” he said. “Concussions spotters, more penalties and suspensions.”

 

“It’s not enough,”

 

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “But it is better. And you’re not going to fix anything by avoiding hockey entirely.”

 

“They wouldn’t listen anyways,” said Paul. Then, “I have a headache. I’m going inside for a while. You can finish the course.”

 

He drove away in the golf cart, leaving Teemu to walk back alone. By the time Teemu arrived at the club, Paul had vanished, presumably back home. So he decided to follow.

 

When Paul greeted him at the door, he clutched an icepack in one hand and was using the other to cover his eyes from the resulting sun. A pang of guilt swept through Teemu’s chest; perhaps the headache had been realer than he’d suspected.

 

“Can I come in?” he asked, carefully.

 

Paul sighed but stepped aside without a fight. All the lights in the house were dimmed, and the AC was blasting in order to keep the oppressive humidity at bay. Thin lines of pain marred Paul’s smooth face, and the pang of guilt intensified.

 

“I’m sorry,” said Teemu. “I shouldn’t have pressed so hard.”

 

“And I didn’t have to be an asshole in response,” said Paul. “So let’s call it even.”

 

He nodded and, after a quick hesitation, swept Paul into a hug. Paul resisted at first but quickly relaxed into the embrace. The ice back sat cold on his back, but he ignored it in favor of the sensation of Paul Kariya, the elusive superstar, the one who got away, in his arms. After some time, Paul pulled away and gulped heavily.

 

“I know you just want to help,” he said. “And part of me appreciates it. But it’s difficult to accept things, changes.”

 

“Then let’s start small,” said Teemu. He scrolled through the options in his head until he found one that he liked and smiled. “Surfing tomorrow morning. You take me. Just a small change in your routine.”

 

Paul just groaned. Teemu grinned. It might be a long battle, but ultimately this was a battle that he would win.

 

 

 

_Day Five_

 

After a solid hour of badgering, Paul had relented and allowed Teemu to join him in surfing the following morning. By joining him, of course, Teemu would make several half-assed attempts at actually surfing and then settle for mocking Paul whenever he slipped off his board while basking in either the warm water or atop the hot sand. Either way, there were few better ways to spend a summer day.

 

Paul waded out into the surf alongside him, and assessing Paul, Teemu noted that while the years had weathered his friend in countless invisible ways, they had treated his physical body more kindly. His physique still held up remarkably to most active players, and he strode into the water with an expression which bordered on serene. Teemu almost regretted intruding on Paul’s time with the water. Almost.

 

“You look good,” he said to Paul. “Truly.”

 

Paul frowned. “Thank you?”

 

“No, I mean, you take care of yourself. Like you always did, of course, but it shows. Other guys in the league, maybe they wouldn’t walk so confidently around with their beer bellies hanging over.”

 

Paul chuckled. “I can think of a few.”

 

Teemu nodded, encouraged at the reaction. “So, you see other guys from time to time then.”

 

Once the water passed their chests, they began to paddle in earnest out towards the real waves. Teemu concentrated on maintaining his rhythm, but Paul proceeded effortlessly, hands gliding smoothly in and out of the water with impressive surety. He talked with the same ease as he might have shared if they were on shore. “Scott surfs sometimes,” he said. “Lives nearby, and we talk occasionally. People invite me to dinner if they’re in town. I’ve heard from Giguere now and then, and Joe, though the past season’s put him in a bit of a foul mood.”

 

“And we thought our Avalanche season was bad.”

 

Paul snorted. “Definitely puts some perspective on the world.” They’d reached a good stopping point, and a wave was fast approaching them. Paul tensed, preparing himself for the ride. “I’ll see you back at shore.”

 

Paul caught the wave easily but Teemu—not so much. He managed by the grace of God to remain standing for a fraction of a second before sliding into the water a jumbled mess, and he tumbled about in the wave before emerging from the surface with his hair in disarray.

 

Paul was laughing at him from the shore.

 

“Laugh all you want!” Teemu shouted across the expanse of ocean between them. “I could beat you at anything else.”

 

“Empty words,” replied Paul. “Only this matters right now.”

 

After several more rounds of Paul’s easy successes and Teemu’s horrendous failures, Paul remained back in order to guide him into proper form. Once more, he tracked the wave carefully, following in its path, and at just the right moment, he pushed up, standing in one clean motion.

 

Only to be knocked violently away by a second wave on its tails.

 

His mouth, already open for a jubilant celebration, swallowed a gallon of seawater and not all of it passed by his airway. He squirmed beneath the water, unable to find either up or down, and already he was choking on the ocean in his lungs, trying to breath around the liquid which sloshed around in the wrong parts of his chest. Was this how everything was going to end? After years of dangerous, contact sport, he would drown off the coast of California?

 

Then strong arms were dragging him through the water, and suddenly his head burst through the wall of water and he could breathe again. He gasped for air, still choking on his mouthful of sea water from before, but someone had so very kind provided a flat surface for him to lie on and catch his breath. He hacked up the water again, alternating between gasping for air and trying to expel the gunk in his lungs.

 

“Teemu,” the voice was saying. “Teemu, listen to me. You’re okay. Breathe. Teemu, can you hear me?”

 

“Yes,” he choked out in between coughs. “Yes.”

 

The owner of the voice, and the arms, clutched him to their chest, where he sank in relief. The warmth there was comforting, familiar even, but mostly, it was solid, steady support. The type he’d sought his entire life, somehow. And he knew exactly who had saved him.

 

“Paul,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Paul, I’m so sorry.”

 

Paul’s concerned face swam hazily into view, blocking out some of the blazing sunlight. He blinked, trying to focus on a solid picture, but found it too much effort. Besides, he’d never needed to see Paul to know he was there, not in hockey, not in life.

 

“What are you sorry for?” said Paul, incredulity tinging his voice.

 

Teemu laughed weakly, finally able to breathe fully and deeply. “I ruined your surfing.”

 

Paul’s strong arms circled him entirely, engulfing him in their embrace. “You absolute idiot,” he said. “You absolute, absolute idiot.”

 

“I know,” said Teemu, “I’m sorry.”

 

The arms left him for a moment and he shivered in the cold, but then he was hoisted bodily to his feet where he swayed briefly. “Come on,” said Paul. “I’m taking you home and we’ll talk there.”

 

Forty minutes later, after Teemu had successfully recovered from his earlier ordeal through a combination of time and Paul’s best tea (Paul never drank coffee, not when the caffeine could hurt his body), they sat on the couch. While Paul busied himself with something on the phone, making a call to someone he didn’t recognize, he absentmindedly browsed the channels, finding only cooking shows and reruns of Friends or Seinfeld on in the early afternoon. One show he couldn’t even his name caught his eye, and it engrossed him entirely as he sipped his tea. He barely noticed when the couch cushions dipped, indicating the presence of another person.

 

“You like this?” said Paul quietly.

 

“You don’t?” said Teemu. “It’s amazing. Nearly as dangerous as hockey I think. That man nearly chopped off his finger two minutes ago.”

 

“Or as dangerous as surfing,” said Paul, and Teemu put aside his interest in the show and muted it purposefully.

 

“I am sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to disrupt your routine.”

 

Paul closed his eyes, and there were the lines that Teemu hadn’t seen before, the thin ones around his eyes which only appeared when he was in pain. Maybe all the commotion earlier had caused his friend another headache, a relapse of his concussion symptoms. The thought of causing Paul any harm was unbearable, and he apologized again.

 

“Stop it,” said Paul. “Just please, stop it.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Stop apologizing for what happened. I wasn’t upset that you’d ruined my routine, Teemu—I was upset that you’d nearly died right there! You think I care about something like my fucking routine when your life is at stake?”

 

“All I’ve done is mess with your life since I’ve come back. Making you play golf, changing your surfing, trying new restaurants—all the changes you don’t want. I’m screwing with your life.”

 

Paul was silent for a moment, and Teemu thought that maybe he would leave, and the two of them would part ways, permanently this time perhaps. Maybe he’d gone one step too far in his badgering. He’d always stretched the limits with Paul, but maybe this time, he’d misjudged the border, pushed too hard on already fragile surfaces.

 

“Teemu,” said Paul finally, and a pang of _something_ , regret perhaps, entered his voice. “Teemu, since the day we met, nothing in my life has been more important than you. That you might think I would care more about my routine than you—that is what upsets me the most.”

 

Teemu turned off the show entirely. He stared at Paul, who with his downcast eyes and thin-lipped mouth was as unhappy as he’d ever seen him, including the day the first time they’d met after Paul’s forced retirement. They’d come such a long way since the all-star game, and not always in a good way, but he’d be damned if he allowed Paul to retreat once more into himself.

 

“Besides my children, the same can be said for me,” he replied. “No one else matters more. Why else would I be here?”

 

“Because Bob Murray asked you to.”

 

“Bob Murray doesn’t tell me to do shit,” he said, and Paul flinched. “You know, most people, if they don’t talk to me for six months, we’re no longer friends.” Paul flinched again. “But for you, Paul, for you I’d wait six months, a year, ten years. I’d prefer not to, of course. That’s why I’m here. For you. Because I don’t want to wait anymore.”

 

Something changed in Paul’s expression. His eyes, never especially light, darkened in the hazy afternoon sun. He, leaned in, opened his mouth to speak, and Teemu awaited each of those words, hung onto their potential like a burr.

 

A knock at the door.

 

Both men started. Paul appeared oddly guilty.

 

“Are you expecting someone?” Teemu asked.

 

Paul rubbed the back of his head. “You scared me earlier,” he said, “so I called my friend who’s a doctor. He said he would look you over.” He paused. “I should probably go get him.”

 

“Probably,” agreed Teemu, and he watched Paul as he left.

 

They’d always had chemistry, but what he’d felt just then—that tug of something deep and warm inside his belly—that was something entirely different. Anywhere else, with anyone else, he’d know exactly how to proceed and would act without hesitation.

 

With Paul, he needed more caution. He needed a plan.

 

 

_Day Six_

“Why is this place so empty?” said Paul as they walked into the restaurant. “Normally it’s packed, even on a Thursday.”

 

Teemu shrugged. “I may or may not have rented the restaurant for the night.”

 

Paul halted. “The entire thing?”

 

“It’s not worse than a new car,” he said, trying to nudge Paul along. “And I have plenty of those.” He gave his friend a gentle shove. “Let’s just find our table.”

 

He’d had only slightly more than twenty-four hours to arrange the whole thing, and it had taken more of his fame and influence than he’d expected to pull it off, but the result was nothing short of magical. After clearing out of the nicer restaurants in town (for a hefty sum of course), he’d arranged for a special menu, complete with both of their favorites, and a carefully selected soundtrack for the evening. Flickering candles lined the edge of the main room, illuminating each windowpane, and the dark hardwood paneling glowed warmly in their light.

 

Let it never be said that Teemu Selanne did anything halfway.

 

Their dinner was already in place when they reached the table.

 

“What is all of this?” asked Paul, furrowing his brow.

 

“Dinner,” said Teemu. “And your favorite one at that, so don’t waste it.”

 

They ate in relative silence for a while, each enjoying their favorite cut of steak. A bottle of Teemu’s favorite wine graced the table, and they each shared a glass. Paul only drank a little, but after several glasses, Teemu couldn’t distinguish between the giddiness from the atmosphere or the liquid courage which came from the bottle. When they each reached for the pitcher of water, their hands collided. A thrill shot up his arm, and this time, he understood exactly what it meant.

 

“You certainly know how to put on a good show,” said Paul as he chewed his last bite. “Always did like showing off.”

 

“You had your own flair too, Paulie,” he replied mildly. “Don’t place this all on me.”

 

Paul shook his head. “Teemu, what is all of this about? What are we doing here alone?”

 

As if on cue, the music changed. It was something slow and languorous, a tune which echoed his time in high school and all the uncertain dances he’d partaken in then. Old, slow, and yet somehow timeless. Ageless.

 

Teemu stood and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

 

Paul stared incredulously. “What?”

 

He gestured out towards the vacant floor, at the space which usually held chairs and tables but now contained only potential. “Dance with me, Paul. Just follow my lead, for once. Please.”

 

Slowly, as if testing every inch of his patience, Paul stood. His eyes darkened as he took Teemu’s hand and followed him carefully into the empty space. For a moment, they stood alone, together, holding hands and waiting for the other to move.

 

Then Paul placed his hand on the small of Teemu’s back. “As it so happens, I’m used to leading as well.”

 

He squinted in confusion. “Since when are you used to anything related to dance?”

 

Paul shrugged. “Part of my therapy for improving coordination involved either ping-pong or ballroom dance. I figured dance might have some long-term use, and so here we are.”

 

He leaned in closer, allowing his breath to tickle the side of Paul’s neck. “You never fail to surprise me.”

 

Paul flushed. “Let’s just dance together, shall we?”

 

Together they stepped to the music, neither one especially graceful (though Paul displayed more coordination than he’d anticipated), neither one fully able to breathe. Every movement which pressed their bodies closer together halted his heart in his chest, and every inch of contact, every almost brush of lips, warmed his body till it burned through his palms and through his heart. But they were just two men, swaying together in a restaurant in California. Two old friends.

 

The song finished.

 

“Teemu…” began Paul.

 

Teemu silenced Paul with a kiss. Nothing aggressive or forceful, but an invitation. An offering. And for a one glorious, glorious moment, Paul accepted.

 

Then Paul pulled himself away. “I can’t do this,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

 

“Why not?” asked Teemu earnestly. “Why can’t you?”

 

“Because…it’s you, and it’s me.”

 

“Exactly. It’s you and it’s me. It’s what makes sense.”

 

Paul kept shaking his head. “It wouldn’t…it can’t.” He turned away. “I have to go.”

 

Teemu watched him flee with a sinking heart. With Paul, persistency was always the key. He needed to find the right pressure point and then push, just hard enough to elicit a response. Persistency had always rewarded him but some things required timing as well as effort. They were more delicate. They shattered when they should have bent or snapped neatly, leaving only a shell of their former selves.

 

If he had shattered their relationship, then he would never forgive himself for that.

 

 

 

_Day Seven_

_You left your watch at my house_.

 

That was the text message he’d received at 10 am from Paul’s number, marking the first text response he’d received in over six months from his friend. More than six months, and now that he had a response, he somehow felt even worse.

 

 _Can I come by to pick it up_? He asked in response.

 

The reply came five minutes later. _Come after one. Surfing until then._

 

He arrived precisely at one. Paul appreciated punctuality, and there was no need to delay the inevitable. For the third time that week, the door swung open and the two of them stood momentarily at an impasse.

 

“It’s inside,” said Paul thickly. “On the counter.”

 

At a loss for words, Teemu walked in mutely. Of course the house hadn’t changed in the past week, but somehow now it felt colder than before. Barren. He collected his watch almost robotically.

 

They each cleared their throats.

 

“So,” he said, “thank you for finding this.”

 

Paul nodded stiffly. “Of course.”

 

“And thank you for the past week as well.”

 

Paul frowned. “What do you mean?”

 

He leaned against the counter and sighed. “I mean, thank you for the good times we had.”

 

“You nearly drowned.”

 

He shook his head. “I meant what I said before. Besides my children, there is not one more important in my life than you. No one I would rather spend time with. Even if that time does involve me nearly meeting an untimely death at the hands of a surfboard.”

 

Beneath the soft kitchen lighting, Paul wilted. “You don’t have to say things like that to make me feel better.”

 

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m saying them because I mean them.” He gestured vaguely into the air, as if he could encompass time as well as space with his hands. “Everything I’ve said this past week, everything I’ve done, I have meant. I have never been anything but honest with you, Paul. Including last night.”

 

Paul flushed. “You don’t even know what you’re doing there, let alone whether you mean it.”

 

Paul’s words were infuriating to be sure, but he smothered his simmering frustration and settled for a simple step forward, closing the distance between them. “And why would you say that?”

 

“Because all week long, you said you’ve wanted change. Change from me, from the world, from routine. Me, the way I get by, it doesn’t work like that.”

 

He placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder, lightly, and when Paul didn’t retreat beneath the touch, he pressed forward. “Being with you would be change, for me at least. A good change.”

 

“But you’re ‘the Finnish Flash.’ You need people and things who are exciting, who challenge you.”

 

He stepped closer, narrowing the distance between them even further. “I need people who ground me. And Paul, you have been, and will always be, the greatest challenge I could ever hope for.” He smiled, attempting to lighten the mood. “You think it has always been easy?”

 

But Paul just deepened his frown. “I’m not easy, though. Even before the concussions stuff…and now, it’s not just the headaches, it’s…it’s complicated. It’s a work in progress.”

 

They stood together, one touching the other, one seeking and one receiving, but almost, not quite connecting. He just needed to know one thing. “Paul, yes, things may be complicated or difficult or hard, but there’s only one things I need to know. Do you want me?”

 

Paul gulped, but he nodded tightly. “Since I first saw you. But I never knew there was the possibility, and it was never the right time—

 

“Then that’s all I need to know. Everything else we can work out. And before you say that I don’t understand, I know I may not fully understand the way you feel, and I probably never will. But I understand as much as you have let me. I always have. As much you offered, I took. If you didn’t want to offer more, I understood.” His eyes met Paul’s, and he tried to show as much sincerity as he’d ever felt. “That much hasn’t changed, Paul. I will never turn any part of you away.”

 

For a second, one terrible, terrible second, he believed he failed. But then Paul was kissing him, gripping him with all the strength in his fingers and dragging him away, pressing him up against the wall. He kissed fiercely, with conviction and confidence and a surety that had been missing from him for so long. But it was here now, and it tasted like liquid gold, felt like a wash of cool rain across his back, releasing the tension which had been building the past week, the past six months, the past twenty years.  Paul buried his lips in Teemu’s neck and began kissing him there, nibbling at the skin, directing all of his intensity and rigor towards this one small task. Teemu just pulled him, gently but hurriedly, towards the bedroom.

 

“Wait, when do you need to leave?” murmured Paul. “Your plane ticket.”

 

Teemu just chuckled into the kiss. “Didn’t book it. I never had any intentions of leaving, my love.”

 

And Paul Kariya, the man so often described as cold or standoffish or too serious, blushed beneath his words. Blushed and blossomed and glowed with radiant joy.

 

And he knew, regardless of whether Paul agreed to see his number retired or not, he knew that he’d gotten exactly what he came for.

 

 

 

_Day Seven + One_

 

Teemu called Bob Murray at eleven that morning, after a languid, luxurious breakfast in Paul’s kitchen. They’d talked of trying to surf again later in the day, to actually teach Teemu properly this time, but first, they needed to do this.

 

“Paul?” said Bob apprehensively. “Paul is that you?”

 

“It’s Teemu,” he said unnecessarily, as if his accent wouldn’t betray his identity.

 

“Teemu,” said Bob in some surprise. “Good to hear from you too. But this is Paul’s number.”

 

“I know. I’m at his house.”

 

“You are?”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am. And I’m calling with good news.’

 

There was a huge sigh of relief from the other end of the phone. “Oh, you’ve convinced him. Well thank fucking God for that.”

 

“There’s one condition, though,” he said.

 

The apprehension snuck back into Bob’s voice. “Which is?”

 

“That I be on the ice with him when they hang his jersey.”

 

He could hear the gears clicking in Bob’s head as he processed the information. “Is this your condition or Paul’s?”

 

Teemu looked sideways at Paul who had curled up in a corner of the couch and was flipping through the pages of his horrendous Finnish spy novel. He smiled softly to himself at the sight, at the knowledge that at last, Paul was entirely his. That they were finally together for the first time in fifteen years, playing for the same team. “It’s ours. Together.”

 

And Paul Kariya smiled.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Paul Kariya really does surf quite regularly, and he did do ballroom dancing as part of his recovery from concussion symptoms. The Scott and Joe mentioned are Scott Niedermayer and Joe Sakic.


End file.
